


Scumbag Blues

by marchingjaybird



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, kaiju sex dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 01:32:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/960012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>►<i>innocence has no resistance against a wicked counselor such as I; you won't make it out</i>◄</p><p>--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------</p><p>After the Breach is closed, no one is footing the bill for K-Science, so Newt finds a new patron and struggles with the after effects of drifting with the kaiju.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scumbag Blues

There is a sense of triumph in Hong Kong, a swelling excitement that has people laughing and crying in the streets. Newt steps into it with a big grin on his face, one among a flood of people that pour out of the Shatterdome and into the waiting arms of the crowd. Most of the men and women who work there are local; the Jaeger crews brought their own techs with them (for the most part) but Hong Kong has supported the Shatterdome whole-heartedly, and her people receive their weary heroes with shouts of joy and spontaneous bouts of singing.

Newt doesn't really understand any of what anybody is saying. His Chinese stinks (he never thought he'd end up in Hong Kong) and his vision is bad (his kaiju eye is still all blurry and his glasses are cracked) and his hands are shaking (and that, at least, is just plain exhaustion; he hasn't slept since he built his garbage Pons) but someone embraces him and someone else drops a crown made of flowers on his head and he is swept up in a tide of humanity, laughing and crying because he doesn't know what else to do or how to feel.

He loses Hermann in the crowd, which does not surprise him in the least. He wonders, actually, if Hermann even made it out of the Shatterdome; he has a tendency to fade into the background when there are large groups of excited people and it's entirely possible that he just went back to his room to suck face with his (unreasonably and inexplicably attractive) wife. Newt doesn't blame him. They're going to have a kid soon, a couple of months maybe, he's not really an expert on Hermann's wife's pregnancy, but Hermann has been getting more and more flustered about her insistence on staying in the Shatterdome with him so it's probably pretty close to time.

And now, Hermann's nerdy kid will be born into a kaiju-free world. Newt doesn't even really like the guy (although he definitely hates him less now that he's been in his brain) and the thought makes his heart swell with a complicated welter of emotions.

He is singing at the top of his lungs, a song in German whose rhythms vaguely match that of the song that everyone else is singing in Chinese. The people closest to him laugh and hold his hands and he is _a part of this_ , he is _special_ to these people simply by virtue of being a fellow human being. And Newt, the kaiju groupie, the manic little asshole who has never been good at being around other people, is filled to bursting with love for everyone around him.

He follows the crowd through the streets, runs around a corner and smacks right into what feels like a wall. The air is knocked out of him. His crown is askew. Laughing, he pushes it back and looks up and up and then up a little bit more and is confronted by the scowling countenance of a man he thought he'd never see again.

"Holy shit!" Newt stands for a second, grinning, then throws his arms around Hannibal Chau's waist. It does not even occur to him to be frightened or wary. He is in love with the world right now, and in his rose-tinted mind, he and Chau have been through some pretty harrowing shit together, and that makes them bros. "I thought you were dead!"

People part around them, clapping him on the back, shouting happily. Chau stands stiffly for a long moment, then growls in his chest and wraps one arm around Newt's shoulders. "Come on, four eyes," he grumbles. "I need to change my clothes."

*

Chau leads him through the streets, bulling a path through the crowds with Newt following close behind him so as not to be left behind. No one tries to put a crown on Chau’s head. No one can _reach_ his head, even if he stood still long enough to allow someone to try. He's moving quick, though, so that Newt practically has to run to keep up, the end result being that when they arrive at Chau's pharmacy he's too out of breath to do much talking and instead follows meekly up the stairs.

Chau has a suite of rooms set off from the main processing floor. They're opulent but surprisingly tasteful, all dark wood and deep red fabric and big, heavy pieces of elaborately carved furniture trimmed in gold. The scale of it suits Chau perfectly; Newt feels like a kid moving through an adult world. He follows Chau into the bedroom and sits cautiously in a massive armchair, swinging his feet and remembering summers at his uncle's lake house, listening to his parents laugh off financial troubles and casually borrow money from Uncle Gunter.

Chau retreats into the bathroom. The shower cuts on. Newt pulls off his flower crown and toys with the blossoms. They're real, fresh, and he wonders where they come from. There are hothouses all over Hong Kong but flowers aren't exactly cheap. He begins to count petals, spiraling in towards the center of the blossom. _He loves me, he loves me not_ , he thinks. It doesn't matter who 'he' is. There has never been a specific 'he' anyhow, or a 'she' for that matter. Everyone that has ever found his or her way into Newt's bed has been a fun, brief fling.

He likes to fool himself that it's a rockstar thing, that he doesn't have time to be tied down to just one person. Really, it's just that he's terrible at people.

There are a lot of petals on the flower. It's one of those flowers, like a chrysanthemum, and he loses himself in counting, and in making up new iterations of _he loves me, he loves me not_. "He's got red hair, he's got white hair, she's got no hair," he mutters, ticking off petals with his pinkie nail. "She's super tall, he's really short, she's got a dog, she's got a cat, he wears purple shoes, she's a murderer, he's a kaiju..."

The shower cuts off and Newt looks up idly. The door between the bathroom and the bedroom is wide open and Hannibal Chau is not a modest man. Newt's eyes slowly open so wide that his vision goes a little bit weird, but what is he supposed to do, _not_ stare? Because Chau is a big guy and it clearly extends to all of him and there's just a wink of gold there at the head of his cock and then Newt forces his eyes on the flowers again and goes as red as the upholstery.

"So," he says loudly, because when he can't think of anything else to do, Newt talks. "What happened with you? I mean... I saw that kaiju eat you."

"It choked on me," Chau answers scornfully. "It took me a while to work my knife out and get my arm up far enough to cut a hole, that's all." 

Newt sits in impressed silence while Chau gets dressed. He stays conscious long enough to slice his way out of a dead kaiju's throat and he talks about it like it's just some shit he does on a Saturday to kill time. Newt is impressed and jealous and suddenly self-conscious of his own efforts. Yeah, he Drifted with a kaiju brain without killing himself, but he's not the one that figured out why that was a stupid idea. Chau had seen that immediately, a fact which has plagued Newt in the moments since (when he was not running for his life). 

"So what are you gonna do now, K-Science?" Chau asks. His thick fingers are deft on the buttons of his shirt. Newt frowns in irritation.

"What do you mean?" he demands.

"You don't have a job anymore, do ya?" Chau mocks, flashing those gold teeth. Newt goes cold all over, then hot, then swallows around the pulse that seems to thud heavily in the middle of his esophagus. "They're gonna defund your program."

"They already did." Newt's mouth feels stuffed full of cotton. " _You_ were funding it."

"Fine," Chau allows, sitting on the edge of the bed. He folds his meaty hands and cocks his head. He hasn't put his glasses back on, and his milky blind eye stares right through Newt. " _I'm_ gonna defund your program. What're you gonna do?"

"Guess I'll go home," Newt answers. He pictures Berlin, the very nice apartment that his parents live in (paid for by Uncle Gunter). Berlin is a safe zone, tucked away inland where they assume no kaiju will ever venture; only the rich and powerful are left there. Mother and Father are definitely not powerful, but they are backed by Gunter and Gunter has money in spades. "There's always the lecture circuit."

Chau laughs at him. Here he is, sitting in a gangster's bedroom in clothes that are missing probably sixty percent of their stitches and seams, clutching a flower crown in his hands. He's exhausted and exhilarated, there's blood on his shirt, his eye is red from hemorrhaging, and the only thing he's done with the past nine years is slice up kaiju and get a bunch of tattoos.

And save the world, there's that too.

"They'll be dying to have me," he mutters, staring down at the flowers, counting the petals. _he's a gangster, he's an asshole, his dick is huge, he's making fun of me, I'm better than this_. "I'm a hero now, I drifted with a kaiju and saved the freaking world."

"Yeah, you're gonna love that, aren't you?" Chau purrs, leaning forward. He must get his suits tailored cause the buttons don't gap at all when he moves around and he's a really big guy. Broad across the chest. Newt flushes. "Shuttling around to different colleges, talking to clean cut kids that've never seen a kaiju in their entire stinking lives. Sounds great."

"Better than staying here," Newt snaps. 

"What if you had a job?" Chau counters.

"Who's gonna give me a job?" Newt yells. "I don't even speak Chinese! And all I know how to do is carve up kaiju oh, oh my god, _you're_ offering me a job?" Chau beams, dazzling Newt with his 24 karat dental work.

There are four petals left on the flower and Newt ticks them off with his thumbnail. _I. Am. So. Fucked._

*

"I got a new job," Newt says casually, tearing into a piece of bread. It's the last of the food in the Shatterdome's kitchens and most everyone is gone already, so the portions are huge. There's no way he can eat it all, but he's loaded up three trays and intends to take the rest of it out into the streets and give it away. Hong Kong supported them for years, might as well give a little back on Hannibal Chau's dime.

"Oh?" Hermann is making every effort to be polite, partly because his wife is there and Vanessa has developed an inexplicable and ineffable fondness for Newt over the past few years, but also, Newt suspects, because Hermann is experiencing the same sort of Drift hangover that Newt himself is. They had been in each other's heads, felt each other's fears and loves and secret hopes. Newt has no idea what Hermann had taken away from him, but after feeling the other man's **[fear/grief/pain/anger/shame]** towards and over his father, Newt vowed to never mock Hermann's devotion to the cold logic of numbers again. It's a hard vow to uphold, but he's doing all right so far.

"We were hoping you would be coming back to Berlin," Vanessa murmurs. She doesn't add _with us_ but Newt hears the unspoken words and sees the sour expression on Hermann's face. They're never going to particularly like one another, and Newt is okay with that. He wants to be stuck on a plane with Hermann about as much as he wants to be swallowed by a kaiju. 

Probably less. Kaiju have a pretty cool digestive system.

"Nope," he says, answering the question that nobody asked around a mouthful of carefully constructed spaghetti sandwich. "I'm staying here in Hong Kong." Hermann chokes on his water.

"For God's sake, why?" he demands. Hermann never really adjusted to the riotous spirit of Hong Kong. Newt's enjoyment of it is just another mark against him in the Gottlieb Book of All That Is Right In The World. "What sort of job could you possibly have found?"

"Hannibal Chau offered me a position." Newt pauses to bask in Hermann's outraged sputtering before he continues. "It's a good deal, dissecting and testing some of the kaiju organs that he has lying around. After I'm done with them, they can still be sold."

"And why is he going to pay you to do this?" Vanessa asks, arching a dark brow. She's gorgeous and English and has a mind like a calculator and she's been the primary accountant for the Hong Kong Shatterdome for years now. Newt has always been fairly certain what attracted Hermann in the first place (hint: it wasn't her lush figure or those cold gray eyes) but he has no clue what she sees in Stick-up-his-ass Gottlieb.

"Any medical advances or actual important shit I discover is partially his," Newt answers, somewhat begrudging. It's not a bad deal, really, he just doesn't like people cashing in on his hard work. But, as Chau so reasonably pointed out, it's either take the deal or go back to lecturing. Newt taught for six years at MIT; he's not eager to get back behind a podium.

Vanessa shrugs eloquently, but Hermann is still flabbergasted by the entire situation. "The man is a thug, Newton!" he protests. "How can you even consider associating with him?"

"Dude, we've been associating with him since the PPDC pulled the plug on us," Newt protests. The spaghetti sandwich, despite his best efforts, has disintegrated into a mess of noodles and crumbling bread. It still tastes really good. "He's not a bad guy, he's just weird-looking."

"It's your grave," Hermann pronounces. Vanessa glowers at him and he pretends not to notice.

*

Hannibal's guys move his stuff out of the lab the next day. Hermann looks on in disapproval and Newt ignores him, but not as cheerfully as usual. He's happy that he'll still have a chance to splash around in kaiju guts, but before, the whole point of it was to save the freaking world. It made it seem cool. It made it seem _right_.

He's doing it for profit now, and there's no justifying that in his mind. Yeah, maybe he's gonna find the cure for cancer in kaiju bile but it's more likely that he'll just be pre-slicing organs so Chau's goon squad has more time to stand around trimming their fingernails with switchblades, or whatever it is gangsters do. 

"I still think this is a terrible idea," Hermann sniffs. He's leaning heavily on his cane today, a sure sign that he's been working too hard and not getting enough rest. Newt's own legs twinge in sympathy. It might be Drift hangover, it might just be that he's worked with Hermann for nine years. It's a weird time to be Newt Geiszler, and his come-back is half hearted at best.

"You thought Drifting with a kaiju was a terrible idea and now we're heroes," he points out. He wants to yell at Chau's guys, but they're being pretty careful already. Probably conditioned by their balisong-weilding psycho of a boss to be real careful with the specimens.

"That is not even remotely the same," Hermann answers primly. He's about to say more, but his ass starts chiming and Newt stifles laughter as he fumbles out a cell phone and answers.

"Yes?" Hermann says, and then, "Slow down. What's wrong?" A long silence and then, his face deathly pale, "No, they can't do that. We're _citizens_!" 

Newt turns slowly to stare at Hermann. There is terror on his face, and fury, but they're both crushed by overwhelming anxiety. He's already spelled out the problem, so Newt doesn't ask, even after Hermann hangs up the phone and lowers himself, shaking, into a chair. "They're not going to let us back into the country," he mutters, pressing a hand to his forehead. "We're considered refugees. _Refugees_!"

"Dude." It is a monumentally inadequate and stupid thing to say. But Hermann's wife is super pregnant, neither of them have jobs anymore, there's no home for them, no food, no medical care. Hermann just saved the damn world and his own government considers him vermin, just another poor bastard from one of the Pacific Rim cities trying to get into the undestroyed safe zone.

"We can sort it out." Hermann is trying to convince himself, shaking his head and blinking rapidly. "I have family there, and we're important members of the PPDC. They can't deny us clearance to travel."

"They kinda already did," Newt points out. Hermann glares at him, a bright spark of venom in his eyes that fades as quickly as it appeared. Even if a mistake has been made, it's going to take time to sort out the red tape, and time is one thing that Vanessa Gottlieb absolutely does not have. Her pregnancy has not been without complications and the PPDC docs were already reluctant to give her the okay to fly. A month down the line? Forget it.

"Newt..." Hermann has his face in his hands and his strident voice is muffled by his palms. Newt pats him uselessly on the shoulder.

"Lemme see if I can pull some strings," he says.

*

Hannibal Chau is reluctant to acquiesce.

"Are you serious?" he demands. "You want me to give your lab boyfriend a job too?" Newt shrugs his shoulders, nods. He's not scared of Chau, exactly, just... terrified of him. "He any good at cutting up kaiju?"

"Ahh, no." Newt bites his lower lip, worrying the corner with his teeth. "No, he's a programmer and mathematician."

"The hell do I need a mathematician for?" Chau steeples his fingers and peers at Newt over them. Newt has no real answer. Hermann was invaluable to the PPDC because the mathematics of the Breach were invaluable to the PPDC. There is very little he can provide for Hannibal Chau.

"Um." Newt shifts from one foot to the other, an awkward nervous dance that he does when he can't quite keep his thoughts from racing. Helps to burn it out physically, or to talk it out, but a lecture on the various uses of the kaiju spleen is entirely inappropriate for this venue.

"That's what I thought," Chau says.

"His wife is an accountant," Newt offers hopefully. People need accountants. Even people like Chau.

"I keep my own books," Chau answers. His voice is a low growl that creeps up Newt's spine. Very uncomfortable.

"Come on, man!" he exclaims, throwing up his hands, letting himself pace. "She's super pregnant and their government won't let them come home! By the time they get it sorted out, she's not gonna be _able_ to fly!" Chau's one good eye tracks him as he darts back and forth, back and forth, his Doc Martens scuffing the fancy Turkish carpet.

"Tell ya what," Chau says finally, holding up a hand to stop Newt in his tracks. "I'll find 'em a place to stay, because I'm a nice guy."

"What's the catch?" Newt demands, eyes narrowed.

"No catch," Chau beams, spreading his hands like a magnanimous savior. Newt does not trust him. "You're just gonna owe me one."

"Well, shit." There's no way out of it. It's not that they don't have money saved up or anything - Vanessa is kind of a financial genius - but space is at a premium right now in Hong Kong, especially after Otachi's screaming rampage through downtown. They might be able to swing rent on a place for a couple of months if Hermann doesn't eat and Vanessa quits going to the doctor.

"All right, you've got a deal."

"Music to my ears." Chau's hand engulfs his own and Newt's life spirals just a little further out of his control.

*

It's not a bad gig, basically the same thing he was doing with the PPDC, only now his lab is a _lot_ nicer. Hannibal Chau is the king of the Kowloon Boneslum; he can get anything he wants approximately five seconds after he wants it, which is intimidating and awesome. Because whatever Newt wants, Chau wants, and it's the ideal relationship between a kaiju nerd and the gangster that employs him.

The lab is huge, gleaming. There are stainless steel rolling tables, refrigerators with and without racks, a centrifuge, dissection tables, storage for his samples. It's like when kids go to Santa's Village and there are trees and glitter and sugarplums and all that stuff that Newt was never really into because he was a boy genius and also his parents were usually away touring that time of year. But the feeling is the same, that swelling wonder, the impulse to grab everything and hug it.

"Holy mother of nuclear fission," Newt breathes, dragging his fingers along a gleaming marble countertop. "You just had this lying around?"

"I had it commissioned," Chau answers. Newt, in the midst of trying to figure out how to hug a bone saw, pivots on the balls of his feet and just stares.

"You did this?" he asks.

"No," Chau says patiently. "I hired people to do this." He folds his arms across his chest and his suits are _really_ made _very_ well because all it does is pull across his shoulders and make them look bigger. Newt is staring, and he gulps and ducks his head and rattles his short nails across the top of a steel table.

"I mean," he says, like that's an explanation. "You did this. You hired people to do this. For me?" Oh man, he sounds like Chau just proposed to him or something. He might as well have. Newt is blushing like a precious virgin Disney princess. If only the flower crown were still around.

Chau snorts and shakes his head. "Moron," he pronounces. "If you need anything, call me." And he's gone, off to sit in a special booth at a restaurant or give out favors on the day of his daughter's wedding or whatever. Newt's entire concept of what Chau does is informed by old Mafia movies.

He moves through the lab, touching everything, purring over the kaiju organs floating in their jars. At about the fourth jar he notices a little piece of tape at the bottom edge of the jar. In neat, block letters it says "MUTAVORE". He scrambles back to the others, searching for and finding the tape on them as well. "KARLOFF" and "YAMAROSHI" and "LEATHERBACK" proclaim the modest strips of tape. Newt is rapturous.

It takes him several minutes to notice that his phone is ringing, and when he looks at the screen it tells him that it has gone to voicemail three times. Rolling his eyes, he thumbs a button and lifts the phone to his ear.

"Hello, Hermann," he sighs. The connection sucks - there just aren't that many active cell towers left - but he can hear his former lab partner just fine.

"What on earth is this place?" Hermann demands.

"You mean the apartment?" Newt continues to wander, letting his fingers make love to the specimen jars. "What's wrong with it?"

"It's underground, for one!" Hermann is getting that shrieky note in his voice that Newt has learned to despise. He holds the phone away from his ear as he makes his way across the room.

The apartments that Chau has put them up in are actually pretty nice. They're built underground, about a block away from the pharmacy (and his new lab) and he's not sure if that's strictly to code or anything, but to his knowledge there aren't any regulations in an exclusion zone, and the place seems to be built pretty solidly. It's spacious, too, with a bedroom and a small living area, and a bathroom where his feet aren't in the shower every time he sits on the toilet. 

"...and furthermore, if you think Hannibal Chau is doing any of this for any reason other than exploitation of your reputation and expertise, you have got another thing coming..." 

There's a panel in the wall on the far side of the room that looks like it slides back. Newt fairly skips over to it, hooking his fingers in the slim crack and pushing hard. The panel does indeed roll back and Newt bounces on his toes until he recognizes what, exactly, is behind it.

"Hermann?" he says into the phone. Hermann keeps talking, so he says it louder. " _HERMANN_!"

"What?" Hermann is irritated at being interrupted, but Newt doesn't care. He's never cared.

There is a note and Newt takes it, flipping it open with his thumb. It's written in what he guesses is Hannibal Chau's hand, the same distinct letters as the writing on the specimen bottles. Laughing softly, Newt pushes the panel until it slides all the way into its socket in the wall, revealing a chalkboard that spans the length of the room.

 _TELL YOUR BOYFRIEND HE CAN COME PLAY TOO_ , says the note.

"Hermann, just... shut up," says Newt.

*

And so they share a lab again, Newt on one side, Hermann on the other, and the bickering continues, though there is a different flavor to it now. Newt still deliberately drops entrails on Hermann's side of the lab, and Hermann screeches the chalk across the board in a way that makes Newt's teeth ache, but where before these were things that they despised about one another, now they are like pockets of warmth in an increasingly unfamiliar world.

Hermann resisted when Newt first presented the idea of working in Chau's lab.

"What on earth will I do there, Newton?" he'd snapped.

"I don't know, what did you do at the last lab?" Newt yelled back. "Math! Do some math!"

Hermann had turned apoplectic, his face shading purple, and it might have turned into an all out brawl had Vanessa not intervened. She'd shoved Newt out into the hallway, fixed him with a cold smile, and promised that Hermann would be there bright and early. Newt hadn't stuck around to listen to the ensuing fight between the married couple, but the door had slammed particularly hard, and Hermann had showed up the next day, sulky but willing, at least, to give it a go.

Fifteen minutes into that first day in the lab, a package had arrived, addressed to Hermann. It contained recordings transmitted back to the LOCCENT of Gipsy Danger's descent through the Breach and into the Anteverse. Hermann had stared for a full five minutes, mouth working in astonishment, and then had buried himself in an attempt to puzzle out the physics of the Breach's throat.

A third of the chalkboard is covered in writing. Newt could figure it out if he had the time and inclination, but why fuss around with physics when there are so many samples to dissect and examine? He's decided to turn his attention to the kaiju's digestive system; it is an aspect of their creation that he finds troubling. They're enormous monsters, sent to gather information and exterminate humans, so why even give them stomachs? Surely it would be more efficient if they simply photosynthesized, like plants? The amount of food they would have to consume to provide energy for such a massive frame is staggering...

" _NEWTON_!" Kaiju guts fly across the floor, leaving a slick trail in their wake. "My side of the lab is not a garbage can!" Hermann isn't even looking at him when he yells, and Newt indulges in a brief smile.

There was a time, when they first met, when K-Science was a brand new field, when Newt was straight off a teaching gig at MIT and Hermann had been with the PPDC for a year, that Newt had imagined he was in love with Hermann. It's a source of some embarrassment now, of course, but back then? He was a hot shot biologist, Hermann was an uptight mathematician. They both pulled long hours, often together. Newt flirted obnoxiously (the only way he knows how) and Hermann grew increasingly annoyed with him.

And then Vanessa happened. She happened really hard. And the flirting had become acting out and the acting out had never really stopped because Newt had discovered the joys of making Hermann's eyes go all buggy like a pug's when he got angry. Newt's over it now, of course; there’s still the odd fantasy that’s mostly only interesting anymore because it’s totally forbidden, but all of the lovelorn ache has drained out of it. Still, there was a time.

The door swings open before he can respond to Hermann, and it's a good thing because his response was only going to be to kick the entrails back across the room and see how long it took Hermann to notice them.

Hannibal Chau's bulk fills the doorway and the two of them stop what they're doing. Hermann is actually frozen, one hand halfway to his precious chalkboard, his eyes like dinner plates. Newt is less impressed, having interacted with Chau three times as much as Hermann has, but he still devotes his full attention to their employer.

"You." Chau levels a huge finger at Newt. "Get cleaned up and meet me in the pharmacy. You've got fifteen minutes."

He's gone before Newt can protest and Newt sits a moment in frozen indecision. It doesn't seem wise to disobey Hannibal Chau, particularly since he's the man who supplies the meat, as it were. (Newt has often thought of him in a Burke and Hare sort of sense; like the grave robbers of the 19th century, Chau brings recovered carcasses to the somewhat morally bankrupt doctor so that he can slice his way to better understanding. A gross comparison, but apt. At least Newt doesn't have to worry about Chau killing fresh specimens instead of bringing him the recently dead.)

"Guess you'd better hurry," Hermann smirks. It's that insufferable tone that he takes when he's sure that Newt is about to get in trouble. Newt bristles.

"Fine," Newt snaps, throwing down his scalpel. He's remembered to wear an apron today, so clean up is a comparative breeze. He washes his hands, wipes up the kaiju bits that splashed onto his collar, and departs the lab at a brisk trot.

"Better pack up that specimen!" he calls over his shoulder. "It'll start to smell!" Hermann begins muttering immediately and Newt beams. It's the simple things in life.

There is a mass of Hannibal's men - and that one woman with the shaved head, of whom Newt is far more frightened than anyone else barring Hannibal himself - in the pharmacy. Some of them are working, grinding bone or slicing a piece of kaiju kidney into slivers. Newt watches them, instantly distracted, and his attention is summarily redirected by the heavy hand that descends to grip the back of his neck.

"Got a proposal for you, doc," Hannibal Chau says. His voice booms through the pharmacy, and the thugs who aren't already occupied are suddenly paying very close attention. The smiles on some of the more expressive faces send a twist of fear through Newt's gut. He nods, not trusting himself to talk for fear of babbling.

Chau snaps his thick fingers and a man steps out of the group. He's slim and well dressed and doesn't look at all like a thug. "Doctor Geiszler," he says, inclining his head slightly. His accent is light, cultured. He's definitely a native, but a rich one for sure.

"Call me Newt," he says automatically. Chau's fingers squeeze his neck slightly, shake him like Chau is a dog and he is the bone. He shuts up.

"This is my tailor, doc." Chau propels him forward and the tailor stops him with a hand to the chest. "You can call him Moses."

"Moses? That's a weird name." The babbling is starting, Newt's eyes growing wider as Moses The Tailor spins him around and lifts his arms. Newt has never been fitted for clothes before, but he's seen movies and shows where people have, and he holds obediently still, his mouth still moving. "I really don't think I need a tailor, though, all I do is cut up kaiju, I mean it's not that I don't appreciate it, really, but I fail to see the purpose of —"

"We're goin' on a little trip," Chau interrupts. Newt shuts his mouth so fast his teeth click together. A trip? "And you're comin' with us. Gotta look good for the meeting."

"Meeting?" Newt echoes. He barely notices Moses and his tape measure and his notebook now. His entire focus has narrowed in on Hannibal Chau, who has taken up residence in a large chair like a king holding court. "Why am I going to a meeting?"

"You're the kaiju expert," Chau purrs, and Newt is suspicious. Because yeah, he's definitely the kaiju expert, but so is Chau. The guy might not know the intricacies of their biology the way Newt does, but he can recognize kaiju flesh just fine on his own. He doesn't get to ask any more questions, though, because Moses is done whipping a tape measure around him and has stepped to the side to respectfully wait until they are through.

Chau immediately disregards Newt, turning to Moses and speaking to him in fluent Cantonese. Newt watches in bemused astonishment; Chinese is a hard language to learn, but even to his uncultured ears, it's clear that Chau is speaking it with ease. He never hesitates, never seems to search for the word he means, and Moses replies smoothly, making notes in the little legal pad in which he wrote down all of Newt's measurements. Newt attempts to sneak a peek but it's in pinyin or shorthand or else Moses has awful handwriting. Whatever the case, Newt has no idea what the two of them are discussing, and when Moses snaps the notebook closed, there is a certain finality to it.

"All right, that's your clothes taken care of," Chau declares, unfolding himself from the chair. His men scatter at a flick from his huge fingers. Newt wants to scat right along with them, but Chau's got him pinned. Not physically, although he definitely could; for all of his stature, though, Chau is the kind of guy that can hold someone still just by looking at them, and he is looking _hard_ at Newt right now. The lenses of his glasses catch the light, flash ominously.

"Where exactly are we going?" Newt asks, leaning back dramatically as Chau starts to walk past him. Chau snorts, shakes his head. Newt falls in behind him like a puppy. "I think I have a right to know! You can't just haul me away from my work and —"

Chau rounds on him and, for the second time, Newt runs smack into his chest. There is no hugging this time, no joy at seeing a fellow human being alive. On the contrary, Newt recoils as quickly as he can, but not before he gets a noseful of some kind of fancy cologne or aftershave. "Sorry," he mutters, holding up both hands like Chau is gonna steal his wallet. "Sorry..."

"Oh calm down." Chau slaps his hands down, his face twisting in disgusted amusement. "I'm not gonna stab you if you look at me wrong." Newt laughs a little, shrugs one shoulder as he tries to play it off like he wasn't scared to begin with. Of course Chau's not going to kill him! It’s not like he has any reason to be worried about that!

Except he still remembers the cold sting of Chau’s knife up his nose and lives his life in fear of that lovingly sharpened blade finding something a little more tender to slice next time.

A thick finger hovering just under his nose collapses that train of thought, and he goes cross-eyed trying to look at it. "But," and Chau's voice has dropped an octave (which shouldn't be possible) and is silky, _dangerous_ , "don't you go forgetting who's the employer and who's the employee, doc. Got it?" Newt squeaks and whines and nods his head, his heart thumping like a rabbit's.

"Good." Chau's hand shifts and Newt does the dumbest thing he's probably ever done in his entire life, including solo drifting with a kaiju brain. There is no reason for it, no precedent, but it's like he can't control his own impulses, like something else is driving him. Chau's hand cups to smack him gently on the cheek, a reward pat for being a good little dog and Newt turns his face into it, nuzzling into Chau's palm like a kitten hungry for affection. Chau inhales slowly. Newt freezes, blessedly just before he starts delivering tender little love bites to the curve of Chau's wrist.

"What's this?" A broad thumb swipes across his cheekbone and Newt shudders, stepping back and shaking his head. He scrubs his own hands across his face, knocking his glasses askew.

"Nothing!" he declares, his voice a touch more strident than usual. "Nothing. It's. I didn't get enough sleep. It's nothing." He still feels Chau's hand against his skin, big and warm and rough. Chau tips his glasses down, his good eye examining Newt head to toe. Newt is uncomfortably aware that his jeans are very tight and his dick is very hard. It takes a great expenditure of will to not cross his hands in front of his crotch.

Chau smiles slowly, faintly, and pushes his glasses back up. "Whatever you say, doc," he purrs, and there is _suggestion_ there now, _intent_. Newt twitches, torn between running until he hits ocean and climbing Chau like a spider monkey. Before he can decide, Chau is turning away, striding up the stairs. His stupid shoes ring in the uncomfortable silence. 

"Better go pack," he calls over his shoulder. "We're heading to Russia tomorrow."

*

Newt sleeps restlessly. There is a pressure in the back of his mind. Not a weight, more like a sharpness, as of claws, the tension just before they puncture. He feels it like an itch, threatening to overwhelm him. He doesn't want to get in bed, fearful of what might happen, but he forces himself between the sheets. He can do without the sleep, has never needed much of it in the first place, but this isn't about that. This is about being brave. It was easier before, when he didn't know what was in store for him.

He sleeps restlessly, but he sleeps. And he dreams.

_she was his, sent to find him, her brother fights the armored creatures so that she has time, time to sniff him out, time to taste his flesh - they want him dead, her overriding biological imperative is to finish the creature, to crunch his bones and swallow his bitter blood, and she crushes as she goes, scattering and killing the vermin, smashing their flimsy constructions, but it is **him** she wants and **him** she will have_

Newt tosses, his fingers bunching in the sheets as kaiju thoughts flow like poison through neural pathways he should never have opened.

_she has felt him, they gave that to her, this alien mind inside their own and she barely comprehends it, she is scornful of his frail body and pathetic senses, but there is a mind there and a purpose and feelings beyond mindless hate and violence - there is desire to find, to learn, to discover, there is fear and love and awe and by his mind she understands what she is to them, a malevolent god from the depths, and she relishes it, and him_

_particularly she relishes his fear, this bone-quaking terror that unhinges him, that drives him to run from her, that leads her straight to him - this place is dense and strange and there are many creatures underfoot, but they are still connected she and him, and she sees through his useless eyes, smells with his pathetic nose, she can_

_feel_

_his_

_heart_

_beating like she feels her own, like she feels her baby's, thudding deep inside, and she - better than the rest, the first of them gifted with cleverness - decides to keep him_

_there is outrage, denial, they share a mind but they are not the same, she is special, she is singular, they have been working on her for a long time, and she has a point, he knows them but why not use that, why not take him, open him up to see how he works the way he has done with countless numbers of her brothers and sisters_

_and she finds him, she finds him, and she unearths him for he has gone to ground, the little morsel, the frightened little creature, she can taste the fear sweat metallic heaviness in his mouth, his delicate little hands shake and shake and she pushes her snout against the hole she has dug and sees through his eyes as she unfurls her tongue_

_bioluminescent_

_beautiful_

Newt wakes screaming into his pillow, struggling for breath, and he rears back with a guttural sob. Oxygen burns its way into his lungs as he sucks in humid air. His legs wobble as he climbs out of bed. His hands are shaking so hard he can barely grasp the doorknob.

He conquers the endless hallway, shuffling and leaning on the walls for support. There is no one in the corridor, no sound but the buzzing of the lights. He finds the door he wants, can't lift his arms to knock. His teeth chatter like he's freezing, but his skin is scalding. He stands, helpless, staring at the door, then collapses forward until his head meets wood.

There is a short silence and then the rattle of unlocking. The door swings open and Newt stumbles forward, into Hermann. Hermann, who is in soft looking pants and a robe and no shirt - Newt can see bare skin peeking out from the deep V of the robe's neck - and who is furious.

"Newton, what are you doing?" Before he even finishes the sentence, his attitude is changing. Newt looks like hell, shaking and flushed and nervous, and Hermann steps out into the hall, grips him by the shoulders. "Are you all right?"

"Had a dream," Newt manages.

"What sort of dream?" Hermann asks. He hasn't had one. Newt can see that as clear as day. And why should he? She wasn't sent for _him_. Hermann reaches up, cups Newt's face to examine his eyes. Newt starts to turn into the touch, remembers Hannibal Chau. From somewhere in the room, Vanessa makes a sleepy, questioning sound.

Suddenly, he does not want the comfort of Hermann's reasoning, doesn't want the subtle _told-you-so_ expression. He shakes his head and steps out of Hermann's grasp. "Doesn't matter," he mutters. "I'll tell you later. Think I must have sleep-walked down here. Sorry. Go back to bed."

"Newt," Hermann protests, but Newt is already shuffling away, trembling hand pressed to his aching head.

*

Newt wakes to a heavy pounding on his door.

He'd managed to go back to sleep, but only restlessly, in fits and starts through the entire night, opening his eyes every hour, waking in a cold sweat every time he dipped anywhere near a dream. It's not the worst night's sleep he's ever had (he frequently goes without, or snatches an hour or two here and there) but it's the most harrowing. The sheets are twisted in a damp wad at the foot of the bed by the time the sun breaks over the horizon.

He's not sleeping deeply enough for the knocking to integrate into some dream, or for it to rouse him slowly. He comes awake all at once, limbs flailing in panic. His heart tries to climb up his throat and is met by the scream that he's trying to swallow and the two of them form a knot of terror behind his Adam's apple. He scrambles out of the bed, his panicked brain trying to make sense of the noise.

It takes him several seconds to wake up enough to recall that he is meant to be leaving today. Going to Russia with Hannibal Chau, actually, and while that doesn't soothe his jangling nerves, it lends him the fortitude to open the door. One of the ubiquitous goons is standing there, arms folded.

"You ready?"

"What? No. Of course not." Newt grips the door hard to keep his hand from shaking. "I'm in my underwear. Give me ten minutes."

"Five," says the thug, and Newt sighs.

"Five," he agrees.

Nothing is packed, but Newt owns very little and even less that he'll need in Russia. A toothbrush, some socks, some underwear. He considers packing clothes, but Chau did just have him measured. Can a tailor slap something together that quickly? Newt, having done all of his past clothing shopping in thrift or department stores, and having never owned a single tailored item in his entire life, has no clue how any of that works. He hesitates, hands hovering over a drawer messily stuffed with clothes.

Chau's thug knocks on the door again. Newt grabs some pajamas and says a prayer.

He's shuttled from his apartment to the pharmacy and, after a short wait in which packages exchange hands and he studiously sees nothing, to a helipad. Chau is waiting, all in sapphire blue today, ensconced like a jewel in the big, black setting of the chopper. Someone snatches Newt's bag and he is shoved inside, squeezing in beside Chau himself.

Chau has one big arm across the back of the seats and Newt squirms, uncomfortable with his proximity. He smells the same, rich spicy cologne, and Newt can feel the memory of that big hand cupping his face. Slowly, his cheeks stain red and he picks at the seatbelt, exhausted and jittery. They are the only ones in the helicopter, but Newt is not brave enough to shift to a different seat.

They are airborne sooner than Newt anticipated. The benefits of traveling with a black market kaiju parts dealer is that there is no waiting around, it seems. Hannibal Chau has a time table and he intends to keep it. Newt twitches, wishes he could lean back, but Chau's arm is still there, cream embroidery on deep blue, and it occurs to Newt, absurdly, that he didn't tell Hermann where he was going.

"You liking your lab?" Chau asks, out of nowhere. Newt answers absently, staring out the window at the choppy waters of the Pacific. He never was one of those people who nurture a morbid fear of the ocean, but the movement of the waves makes him uneasy.

"It's really great," he murmurs. His eyes are riveted to the ocean. It is mesmerizing, the deep swells, the white of the foam.

"Yeah?" Chau leans in close, his breath hot against Newt's ear. He notices in an abstract sort of way that Chau's chest is pressed up against his back, that the huge gangster is warm and firm and kind of comforting, actually. A human presence in the face of the vastness of the ocean. "How does your boyfriend like it?"

"He's not my boyfriend," Newt snaps. He leans away, pressing closer against the window. Is that a dark shape, skimming beneath the waves? The massive shadow of the creature that is hunting him? 

(No, of course not, she's dead, he saw her die through her own eyes, witnessed the meat and viscera to which she had been reduced. She's not down there in the Pacific, trailing the chopper as it flies north to Russia. Even if they made a new one, there is no Breach! They closed it! Jaeger pilots gave their _lives_ to close it. But there is that treacherous little voice that whispers _they made a breach before Newton who says they can't do it again_ , that voice that he hates. That voice that is usually right.)

"Isn't he?" Chau's breath stirs the fine hairs on the back of Newt's neck. His big fingers stroke Newt's elbow. Unthinking, Newt reaches back to rub at the tickled skin and his knuckles graze Chau's lips. A fist closes around his hand with crushing pressure. He finally tears his eyes away from the ocean.

"OW!" he protests, trying to shake Chau off. The man's got a death grip, though, and there's a twisted smile on his face.

"You tryin' to hit me in the mouth, doc?" he taunts. Newt, assaulted with images of what could happen to him if Hannibal Chau takes a sudden dislike to him, shakes his head frantically. 

"No!" he yelps. "It was an accident! I didn't know you were that close!" And he stops, narrows his eyes. Chau is still smiling. "Why _were_ you that close?"

"How about you get a little rest, kid," Chau suggests, stretching out. He props his feet (encased, as always, in those stupid, stupid shoes) up in the chair across the way. "You look like you didn't sleep well."

And, since Newt can't disagree with that, he closes his eyes and tries his best.

*

It's not a long trip, but he dozes, and when the changing air pressure pops his ears and forces him to wake up, he's snuggled up against Hannibal Chau's side like a puppy. His first instinct is to jerk away in a panic, but Chau has a companionable arm around him and it's actually pretty comfortable, and so he stays put, shrouded in a haze of warmth and expensive fabric and heady cologne, until they touch down.

He sits up, clearing his throat for the inevitable explanation, but Chau doesn't even let him get started. "Sleep well?" he asks, standing. He has to stoop nearly in half, but he makes his way to the door as though he's done it a thousand times before. Newt follows helplessly.

"Yeah, I guess," he yells, but no one hears him over the roar of the chopper's engine. The wind created by the rotors flings his tie into his mouth and he spits cloth as one of Chau's guys takes him by the arm and leads him across the helipad to a waiting building.

It's a squat, gray thing from the outside, and not much more impressive on the inside. There are a few battered couches, a table full of Russian newspapers and ashtrays, and a television in the corner that appears to be playing some kind of weird cartoon. Newt only has seconds to take it all in before he's shunted off down a colorless hallway and shoved into a cramped room.

"Get ready," his handsy escort instructs, slamming the door before Newt can question him. Dazed, he turns a little circle and takes in this fresh hell.

It's a box, basically. There's a showerhead bolted to the wall in one corner, with a drain below it, but no curtain or door or anything, just stone walls and stone floor. Across from it, there's a toilet, a sink, a mirror. To Newt's left is a low table, on which someone has placed what appears to be a very nice suit, a new pair of shoes, several bottles, and what might very well be the softest towel in the entire world.

He stands stupidly in the middle of the room for a long minute, debating. He _could_ just refuse to take part in this nonsense, but he's fairly certain that Chau has no problem just dumping his pasty ass in Russia. Also, it's not like he got to shower this morning, so it won't kill him to scrub the stink off his skin.

The bottles turn out to be the usual toiletries: shampoo, body wash, deodorant, cologne. In spite of the prison-like location, it's probably the most expensive shower he's ever taken; everything smells like wood and citrus and Newt's nose is not nearly refined enough to figure out what exactly the combination is meant to be, but he likes it. It makes him feel good, relaxed, and he's actually smiling by the time he dries off and puts on the suit.

Which fits like a glove. Courtesy, he assumes, of Moses, who probably worked all night on the damn thing, or maybe not, Newt has no concept of how long it takes to tailor a suit. It's perfect, though, and nothing like Hannibal Chau's gaudy threads. He can't tell what it's made of, but it's soft, dove gray with silvery pinstripes and a pale lilac shirt and a vivid dark purple tie that is definitely silk. It's all way too nice for him and he stands kind of awkwardly in the room, staring at himself in the mirror until the door opens again, admitting the man himself.

"Not bad," Chau says. There is a comb in his hand, and he seizes Newt's face, runs it through his hair. Newt mutters a little, but endures. "You like it?"

"It's really nice," Newt admits, smoothing the front of the jacket. "I still don't get what it's _for_ though..."

"You're about to," Chau says, clapping him on the back. He leaves his hand there, uses it to steer Newt out the door and down the hall. There's nothing for it but to follow; Chau is in a good mood and Newt doesn't want to ruin it by being difficult.

They leave through the front of the building and get into a car. It's big and comfortable but it's made by some manufacturer that Newt has never heard of, and he's not entirely sure if it's top of the line or just really well cared for. He sits carefully, terrified of wrinkling his suit, and stares out the tinted windows. Scenery flashes by, but he has no context for it, and so the buildings are just empty squares, the people are ghosts on the sidewalk.

They drive for a while, long enough that Newt starts to fall asleep, head on the glass. He'd slept that way when he was a kid and his parents would tuck him into the backseat for a road trip. They were good about making it fun; there was a little nest in one of the floorboards of the car, full of pillows and blankets, where he could let the hum of wheels on road lull him to sleep. The other was full of books and snacks and Crayons, anything to keep him distracted and in his seat. Often, when they were driving somewhere he'd never been, he would push his face against the window and stare at the scenery and let the buzzing of the car get into his brain, and once his neck started to ache from sitting like that, he would unbuckle his seatbelt and climb down into his little floor nest.

He looks over at Chau, smiles a little. That would be a hell of a reaction to watch, Chau's face as Newt flopped onto the floor, sound asleep. It's almost worth trying it to see what would happen, but Newt is not that brave. He'd get a kick in the head for his troubles, a rough order to sit up and stop acting like an idiot. Or Chau might be into it, who knows? He'd certainly not minded Newt snuggling him in the helicopter.

(And hadn't that been nice? What a disturbing thought, but it's tempting to slide over, to push up against Chau's side again. Not just because it's comfortable, not just because it's warm. Chau makes him feel... safe? Newt examines the word, slots it into place. Yeah. Safe. Chau is a wall behind which he can hide. Newt starts to slide his hand over to tangle his fingers in Chau's, then stops in horror. His fingers tingle at the near miss.)

When the car stops, it startles Newt into motion and he's out of the car before anyone else. Which is not actually the best idea; isn't that what the goon squad is for? To secure the area or something? He could have been shot! By the time all this occurs to him, he is already standing outside the car, bouncing on the balls of his feet and enduring withering glares from the two thugs in the front seat. Hannibal joins him, resting a big hand on the nape of Newt's neck.

"In a hurry, little guy?" he asks, squeezing. Newt, wound up and confused and abnormally sensitive, flushes in pleasure at the contact and does not try to slip away.

"No, I just got out of the car," he babbles, allowing Chau to steer him in the direction of what appears to be a very nice hotel in the middle of nowhere. "That's kind of a thing that people do, getting out of cars when they stop. Nobody told me I was supposed to wait-"

"Stop talking," Chau orders, and Newt's jaw snaps shut obediently. Big fingers caress briefly, dipping past the collar of his shirt to stroke along the top of his spine. Newt enters the building flushed and baffled, Chau's arm sliding to wrap around his shoulders companionably as they approach a pair of waiting men.

Chau greets them in Russian and a conversation that Newt does not comprehend at all flashes over his head. Chau still has an arm around him, occasionally shakes him like a prized doll. Once, the two men look at him and one of them smiles a little. The other looks angry, though for what reason Newt cannot discern. He picks up a few words here and there, but his Russian is as bad as his Chinese, which is to say that he knows how to ask for the bathroom and that's about it.

They're definitely arguing, though, there's no mistaking that tone of voice. Newt cringes back a little. There's no reason for him to be here and these guys aren't happy with Chau and he's starting to wonder if he's going to leave this hotel in a body bag. But Chau doesn't seem worried; his voice is smooth and dark, his hand has slipped down to rest in the small of Newt's back. That, he feels, should concern him more than it does.

But it's a good feeling, a warm weight against his spine holding him steady. He exists there, just on the edge of uncontrollable anxiety, anchored by the big beringed hand of the gangster that brought him to it in the first place. It's a weird headspace, but Newt is used to weird headspace. He's lived in varying states of dysfunction for a long time now.

The Russians and Chau seem to have come to some agreement because Chau is steering him across the lobby to an isolated corner stuffed with couches and tall potted plants. They all sit. Chau doesn't remove his hand, just slides it up to grip the back of Newt's neck. The Russians ostentatiously ignore Chau's bizarre display of territorial affection, and one of them gestures. A bellhop hurries across the lobby, pushing a cart. There is something on it, covered over with a white cloth. Newt watches enviously as he scurries away again, and so misses the big reveal when the Russian whips the cloth away with a flourish.

"That's a nice specimen," Chau is saying. His tone is deeply unimpressed, so Newt doesn't turn back around immediately, instead choosing to longingly eye-fuck the door. Somewhere in between imagining himself running through the lobby screaming and actually preparing to do it, he hears Chau's words and understands them, and realizes that they are meant for _him_.

Slowly, he twists back around. Chau and the Russians are staring at him, but the Russians have carefully cultivated blank faces, and Chau is wearing those damn sunglasses, so it's impossible to tell what they're thinking. Nervous, Newt turns his attention to the jar.

It's full of cloudy liquid, which he immediately recognizes as the solution in which people preserve kaiju parts. He's managed, over the years, to perfect a mixture that's only a little opaque. This is the old school stuff, the kind you have to shake up and shift around before you can see anything. They've done the honors, and Newt is transfixed, held under the baleful dead gaze of a kaiju eye.

He stares, and as he stares, it blinks. Still alive. Of course, because they don't die, they _never_ die, and even as he watches it begins to rebuild the kaiju around itself, nerve endings knitting into blood vessels knitting into bone and muscle, and the bulk of the kaiju rises up around them. No one else seems to notice. They are all still staring at him, waiting for his input. Iridescent scales glitter as the kaiju breathes, unable to move away from the fixed position of its eye. He is not seeing an actual creature, just the idea of it. The memory of it. Is it because they are in his head? Undoubtedly. But this, unlike the nightmares and nerves, _this_ is something amazing. This is like being able to look at an apple and know which specific tree it came from.

Maybe not that extreme. There are considerably less kaiju in the world than there are apple trees.

"This is from Hardship," he breathes, reaching up a hand. There is nothing there and he doesn't want to look crazy, so he presses his palm against the jar. The phantom kaiju regards him with interest. It is beautiful, a masterwork of physical and genetic engineering. "Where did you get it?"

He turns his attention to the Russians; they are staring at him as though he has grown an extra head. Too late, Newt understands that he should never have named the kaiju. There is no way for him to know where the eye is from. Now it probably looks like they've been spying on the Russians or something. He casts a desperate look at Chau, who is staring at him with a faint quirk of the lips, an expression which could either be irritation or fondness. Probably both.

One of the Russians speaks to Chau in a clipped sort of tone, although Newt can't tell if it's because he's pissed off, or if it's just because he's speaking Russian. He closes his eyes and leans back into the couch, weary suddenly. He doesn't want to look at the kaiju anymore. There's something unnerving about the way it just crouches there, filling the entire lobby and then some, while people walk straight through its bulk. He can still feel the eye on him, though, and he squirms while Chau conducts his business.

It's over in a few minutes; Newt feels an absence beside him, and he cracks open an eye. Chau and the Russians are shaking hands in the middle of Hardship's throat and Newt groans, closes his eyes again. It was cool when it first happened, but if this is actually going to be a thing now, he's never going to get any work done. Partly because hey, a lab full of kaiju is really distracting, but mostly because he's gonna be moving samples around until every kaiju butt in the place is directly over Hermann's head.

And what kind of time waster is _that_?

"Come on," Chau says, nudging his shoulder. "That went better than I thought. Lemme buy you dinner."

*

Dinner is amazing, much better than Newt is used to, and afterwards they are shuttled to a new hotel, one that is actually in the city. It's pretty swanky, and Newt gets a room all to himself, but the television only plays Russian channels and, once he's sampled all of the free shit scattered around the place, it kind of loses its charm. He sits on the bed and stares at the phone, wondering if he should call Hermann. Vanessa knows where he is (because she's like his hot stepmom; he feels guilty if he doesn't tell her everything, then feels double guilty for staring at her legs when she walks down the hall) but Hermann will still worry.

He picks up the receiver, but there is no dial tone. Just there for show, evidently. Newt frowns, hangs it back up. He's taken off the suit that Chau made him wear. It's hanging up in the closet, alongside four more. He doesn't know how long they're gonna be in Russia, but it looks like he'll be well dressed for the duration, at least.

The jetlag is trying to creep up on him, but every time he thinks about lying down to sleep, he breaks out in a cold sweat. So, fine. He'll pull a Hermann, although this is probably way too basic for Hermann and would earn him only scorn. Not that it matters, because it's not like he's going to go home and confess that he counted in order to fall asleep. Hermann would probably get all crazy about that anyway and give him a twenty minute lecture about how numbers are totally not boring and shouldn't make anyone fall asleep ever.

But Hermann is a jerk anyway, so Newt ignores his imaginary recriminations and just counts prime numbers until he drifts off, secure in the little fort of simple mathematics that he's constructed in his mind.

_big fingers tangle in his hair, thumbs rubbing circles against his temples, and his mouth is full, more full than it has ever been before but he swallows it down without gagging, relishes the heaviness of it against his tongue, and more than that he relishes the sounds that Hannibal is making, the soft, sustained growl that is bubbling in his throat as he rolls his hips forward, pushing endlessly into the welcoming warmth of Newt's mouth, down and down and then he's in Newt's throat, snaking impossibly far down his esophagus and Newt opens his eyes_

_and she is beautiful, so big, so perfect, the reek of ammonia stings his eyes and her acid drips all around him, coating his body, numbing him instead of killing him, and the appendages that flower out from her tongue ( **tentacles!** screams his mind) stroke along his bare skin and leave in their wake a riot of sensation, pleasure/pain and burning so intense that it freezes him there on his knees_

_her tongue is deep inside his mouth, her acid saliva drips down his throat, and he can hear her thoughts like a great roaring in his mind_

_i will keep him, i will keep him, he is mine and he will help us, there is so much the baby can learn from him, he can teach us all of their secrets and we will kill them together, he is mine, I WILL KEEP HIM_

_and he wants to back away from her, he wants to scream, but she has him speared, one of her appendages snakes down into his lap, wraps around his cock and he is sobbing, screaming around her tongue, it burns and aches and her glowing flesh ripples around it, he wants to come, he wants to come **so badly** and then she's pressing up inside him and he has a horrible image of the two limbs meeting in the middle, but it feels so good, she is inside him and all around him and he belongs to her_

_the tip of her massive claw is big enough to cover his entire chest but he can feel her intent, knows that she has laid the very tip over his thundering heart_

He barely makes it to the bathroom before he throws up, and he immediately regrets it. Dinner splashes into the toilet, then he's choking up bile and dry heaving and sobbing on the cold tile of an unfamiliar bathroom with the taste of her still in his mouth. She's dead, he knows that. Hell, he stood right in front of her corpse, watched her baby strangle to death. They are both gone.

But not gone, perhaps. The Precursors can remake her, after all, and she will have the same genetic memory, the same drive to discover him. Is she there right now, in the Anteverse, waiting for them to find or form a new Breach so that she can finally come finish what she started? Newt shudders uncontrollably for several minutes, clutching his arms tight around himself and whimpering in mindless fear. His dreams might be memories, random neural impulses that translate into horrifying nightmares, but he doesn't think so.

He thinks they have remade her. He thinks that Otachi has risen from the dead, and she is even more eager to find him now. She is made specially for him and she will come to claim him, and this time, there will be no Jaeger to stand in her way.

Newt scrubs his face clean in the sink, splashing cold water on himself until he might as well have just climbed in the shower, then brushes his teeth fervently to get the taste of vomit out of his mouth. He still feels her acid all over his body, her tongue tentacles rippling and exploring. He reaches down, gasps.

Awkward. He is hard, more aroused than he has ever been before. His fingers on his shaft are almost painful, and he snatches his hand away, presses it against his stomach instead. He aches, he _needs_ , and he is disgusted by it. She's done this to him, somehow, she's crawled inside his mind and made his body betray him. His fingers drum against his belly, a nervous habit that Hermann deplores. 

Jesus, Hermann. What's gonna happen to him and Vanessa if the kaiju come back, if Otachi comes looking for him?

 _Jesus_. _Hermann_. Newt shudders, passes his fingers across his lips. That is definitely not a line of thought he wants to pursue right now. Not when he's so hard he could cut diamonds. Not when he can perfectly picture Vanessa's smooth brown skin and her long legs, the way Hermann looks her up and down when he thinks neither of them are watching, and he has that goofy worshipful expression on his face, like he can't believe he got so lucky. And the way Vanessa looks at him, so indulgently adoring, and the way her long fingers comb through his stupid hair, and the way she leaves bright lipstick kisses on his forehead.

And the way Newt has imagined them staring at him that way, looking him up and down, kissing his face and leaving marks of love there on his skin. The way he's imagined them reaching for him, Vanessa propelling him into Hermann's arms and then pressing against his back, her lips nuzzling the nape of his neck while Hermann's devour his throat.

Newt slams a fist against the sink, desperate for the pain to shock him out of that line of thought. It wasn't an unusual fantasy. Hell, it had kind of become his go-to for the past couple of years, even though he didn't much think of Hermann that way when his dick wasn't hard, and he'd _never_ imagined himself having a chance with Vanessa. It's a little comforting normality, but wildly out of place right now considering the origins of his arousal.

There is a knocking at the door. Newt panics. It's the middle of the night in Russia, who the hell would be coming to see him now? Is it those guys from earlier? They'd seemed pissed about something, but holy shit, a nighttime kidnapping from a hotel, right under Chau's nose?

There is a complimentary robe hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. Newt swirls it around his shoulders and slams his hands against the door, pressing his eye to the peephole. There is no one there. He relaxes a little, takes a deep breath, and lets it all out in a yelp of surprise when the hammering on the door begins again.

Stupid. Of course they're not going to stand right where he can see them! He chews his lip, wonders if there's some way he can call the desk and get them to put him through to Chau's room. Surely they speak English...

"Open the door, doc, I'm not gonna stand out here and knock all night," Hannibal calls. He sounds amused, annoyed, dangerous. Newt wonders if he has that knife with him, wonders if he's planning on using it. At least it's not Russians. He opens the door.

Hannibal is, for once, dressed down a little. His pants are deep blue, plain but well made, and he's lost the vest and jacket in favor of a crisp white button-up and a pair of suspenders decorated with the kaiju head that he's adopted as his symbol. The get-up makes him look even bigger and Newt is forcefully reminded of the beginning of his dream, and Hannibal Chau's huge hands cupping his skull.

"Hi," he manages. Chau looks down at him, glasses glittering blankly. "Um, what's up?"

"Front desk called me," Chau drawls, stepping into the room, forcing Newt back. He closes the door behind him, latches it. Newt whimpers. "Seems the people on either side of you called to report that you were screaming your fool head off. The people on duty recalled you were with me-" and here Chau pauses to flash Newt a dazzling 24 carat smile "-so they called me up and asked me to come take a peek, see what the deal was."

He leans close, looming over Newt. God, he smells good. "So, doc," he murmurs. "What's the deal?"

Newt really does intend to just talk, to tell Hannibal about the nightmares and apologize and get him to _go away_ , but a lot of the time what he intends to do gets superseded by what he wants to do. This is one of those times. Before either of them have time to really think about it, he's in Chau's arms, hands fisted in his no doubt expensive shirt, and their lips are together, painful and sudden. There is a long moment of discomfort where a million thoughts flash through Newt's head (chief among them, _holy shit, he's definitely going to kill me_ ) and then Chau's arm wraps tight around his waist and his feet are off the floor and he's being kissed to within an inch of his life, Chau's mouth bearing down on his like he's been wanting this since they met.

Newt is vaguely aware of motion and then Chau's arm slips down to anchor his hips and his shoulders meet the wall hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. He gasps, breaks away. Chau's mouth travels along his jaw down to his throat. Gold teeth worry his skin. He'll have a bruise there in the morning and he clutches the back of Chau's head, fingers unable to find purchase in short hair but digging in nonetheless, pressing the gangster's face harder against him. He thinks about the dream, thinks about Otachi, whimpers as Chau's free hand slips up his bare thigh.

And then it stops. Chau's thick fingers dig in hard, but he's not kissing Newt anymore, not sliding his hand just that little bit further. Newt squirms, makes a soft whining noise in his throat. "Don't!" he gasps. "Keep going, I wanna keep going!"

"Why were you screaming?" Chau demands. His face is inches from Newt's. He's still wearing the glasses but they've been knocked slightly askew by their frantic kissing. Newt reaches up, hooks a finger around the arm and pulls them off. Chau's ruined eye is milky and fierce, but the other one, the good one, seems almost... concerned?

"I had a bad dream, that's all," Newt mutters. There's nowhere to put the glasses and so he just holds on to them nervously. He wants this conversation over and done with so that they can go back to what they were doing. His skin aches and tingles and he squirms a little, trying to force Chau's hand further up.

"About what?" Chau's voice is infuriatingly calm, his entire body as steady as a mountain. Newt wonders if other parts of him are similarly rock-like and almost laughs.

"Nothing," Newt insists. "Kaiju." It's a reasonable thing for him to have nightmares about, after all, and there's no reason to go into detail about it. Chau ought to accept that Newt is still traumatized by his close call with Otachi.

He ought to, but he doesn't. His hand tightens briefly around Newt's skinny leg and his voice drops to a growl. "They still in your head?" he demands, and Newt's full body shudder is apparently enough answer for him. He lets Newt down slowly, supporting him until Newt's shaky legs can take his own weight.

"No," Newt says. "Yes. I don't know, when I sleep sometimes I have dreams. That's all. It was scary." He pulls the robe tight around himself, painfully aware that it's all he has on. Chau studies him for a second, then nods.

"I still think you're lyin' to me," he says, "but if that's how you want it." He reaches down, plucks the glasses from Newt's hand. "Try not to scream in your sleep again, doc." He's going to leave. He's going to put his glasses on and walk out the door and leave Newt here alone to take care of himself and Newt, desperate both for company and for Chau's big hands on his bare skin, short circuits and drops to his knees.

"Don't go," he breathes. His fingers are working at Chau's button, pulling him closer as it pops open. What if he's not hard? What if he just kind of got caught up in Newt's insanity and doesn't really want to do this? What if he's (dear lord, please no) straight and just didn't know what to do when Newt kissed him?

Newt reaches into Chau's pants, pulls out his cock. It's big and thick and pierced and (yes!!) hard and getting harder as he strokes his fingers down the length of the shaft. Newt lets out a shaky breath, suddenly terrified. But this is not a dream, Chau is not going to turn into a kaiju. Best to make sure, though. It’s _always_ best to make sure.

There is a snapping sound and Newt looks up, sees that Chau has unfastened his suspenders. He's looking down at Newt with an unreadable expression, but he's not saying stop. Newt chews at his lip. It's been a long time since he did anything remotely like this; K-Science Division isn't exactly a hotbed of sexual activity unless you're Hermann and you have a hot wife.

"Careful, doc," Chau purrs, cupping Newt's cheek, guiding him forward. The head of his cock nudges Newt's lips and he gasps, flicks his tongue out. It swirls around the thick gold ring and Newt is surprised by how warm it is, then annoyed by his surprise. "Don't chip your teeth." 

Newt glares up at him, parts his lips. Hannibal's big hand slips down to cup his jaw, guide him forward, and then Hannibal is in his mouth, thick and hard against his tongue, and Newt moans. Hannibal slides in, inch by inch, and the ring drags along Newt's tongue and his arms go limp as he surrenders himself to Hannibal's guidance. He's never specifically fantasized about this sort of thing, but after the night he's had, it's perfect. Thick fingers, thick cock, someone else to be definitively in control.

Newt tips his head back, moans again. Hannibal is getting dangerously close to gagging him, but he breathes through his nose, curls his fingers around his thumb and squeezes. He heard somewhere that doing that stops you from gagging and he doesn't know if it really works or if it's a mind over matter sort of situation, but Newt's nose brushes against Hannibal's belly and his lips are closed tight around the base of Hannibal's cock and he squirms in pleasure. His entire mouth is full, his jaw aches, and Hannibal is definitely tickling his throat.

"Good boy," Hannibal murmurs from somewhere far above Newt. He sounds a touch surprised, a lot impressed. His fingertips stroke Newt's cheek once and then he's pulling back, coaxing Newt to move on his own, and Newt is happy to do it. He's got a feel for it now; his mouth remembers the motions, his hands tease at Hannibal's hips, pushing him back, pulling him forward. His teeth catch the ring, give it a little tug, and Hannibal sucks in a sharp breath.

At no point does he turn into a kaiju.

He does, however, catch Newt by the chin and push him back, stroking his swollen lips, laughing as Newt whimpers and tries to lean back in. "No, baby," he purrs. His huge hand fists in the front of Newt's complimentary robe and he hauls Newt to his feet, pulling him close. "Get on the bed."

Newt is confused at first, then embarrassed, then he's scrambling onto the bed, shedding the robe as he goes while Hannibal laughs at him. He's grinning himself, stupidly eager. All of the fear has evaporated, replaced by the certainty that he is about to get fucked so hard that he won't dream for a week.

Hannibal takes his time undressing, carefully undoing each button on his shirt, laying each article of clothing across the foot of the bed in a deliberate manner that makes Newt want to scream. When he picks the shirt up and starts to casually do the buttons back up again, Newt _does_ scream. Hannibal, standing naked in the middle of the room, but still wearing his stupid glasses, looks up at him with an amused smile.

"Something you want?" he asks.

"You know," Newt answers.

"Say it," Hannibal orders. Newt squirms, blushes, scrubs a hand through his hair. He mutters and Hannibal cups his hand around his ear.

"I said I want you to fuck me!" Newt yells.

"I know." Hannibal looks back down at his shirt. "I was waiting on you."

"What." It's not a question. "Waiting on me."

"Yeah. You don't wanna get yourself ready?"

Newt starts to scream again, but the lewd smile on Hannibal's face is indicator enough of what he means, and a pleasant tingle starts in the pit of Newt's belly as he contemplates it. Get himself ready. Show off for Hannibal. Yeah, that could be fun...

"I don't have any..." He trails off, bites his lip. "Y'know. Lube."

Hannibal sets down his shirt, picks up his pants, fishes in the pocket, and produces a small bottle of lubricant. Newt takes it, stares at it, stares up at Hannibal. "Have you been _planning_ this?" he demands.

"What if I have?" Hannibal goes back to buttoning up his shirt, then starts to fold it neatly, like he works in a department store or something. Newt opens his mouth to protest, then snaps it shut again and considers. So what if he _has_ been carrying around lube on the off chance that Newt decides to jump on his dick? It's not like he tried to use it before Newt was ready, or made his intentions known before Newt had expressed interest. That he's been carrying it in his pocket at all is kind of sweet, in a frightening sort of way.

Newt chews at his lower lip as he pours lube onto his fingers. He's done this before, it's not like he's some kind of traumatized virgin or anything, but Hannibal Chau is... intimidating. And he's not sure he wants that creepy blind eye looking at his ass, and really, maybe this is all just a super bad idea. He glances at Hannibal and blows out a slow, contemplative breath.

Hannibal has finished folding his clothes and is staring at Newt, a tiny smile on his face. His thick fingers are wrapped around his cock. Rings glitter as he strokes himself lazily. "Go on," he urges. "Or are you chickening out on me?"

"No!" Newt squirms on the bed. There is a sustained shrieking in his head; his inner Hermann freaking the fuck out. Newt sets his jaw and turns onto his stomach, pushes his ass up in the air. There is an appreciative growl from Hannibal, a soft whimper from Newt, and then his fingers are pressing in and he closes his eyes and lets feeling overwhelm him.

It's strange, the way his wrist has to bend, the fact that he can't get his fingers deep enough, but little threads of pleasure creep up through his belly and down his legs. He bites his lip, wriggles into a better position, one finger and then two and then three because Hannibal is big and Newt's fingers are slim. He whines, rolls his hips impatiently, and a huge palm covers his hand, pushes his fingers deeper. Newt muffles a yelp as Hannibal grips his wrist and leans over to plant surprisingly tender kisses up the length of his spine.

Hannibal tugs at Newt's wrist and his fingers slip free, leaving him empty for only a second before one of Hannibal's thick digits replaces them. Newt lets out all the air in his lungs in a quick huff, pushing back against the roughness of Hannibal's finger. This situation is rapidly losing all of its ridiculousness; he can feel the armor of his self-consciousness dropping away, and he slaps a hand against the sheets.

"More!" he demands. His voice has gotten higher and rougher, and Hannibal laughs. But he obliges and so Newt forgives the laughter, shrieking into a pillow as a second thick finger presses up inside him.

"You scream like that the whole time?" Hannibal murmurs, laying his other hand on the small of Newt's back, soothing him, holding him still. Newt gulps, nods. His face is red, he can feel it, and his limbs are trembling wildly; he's obnoxiously, embarrassingly sensitive, in part because it's been so long but mostly because Hannibal's fingers are massive and he desperately wants them to _move_.

"Yes!" he yells, squirming back, dragging his nails across the sheets. They make a soft, whispery noise, entirely unsuited for his current state of mind. "Please!"

"You suck at begging, baby," Hannibal purrs, but his fingers begin to stroke in and out slowly, rotating, stretching, and Newt makes high pitched noises in his throat as pleasure washes through him. Hannibal's fingers reach deeper than his did and he ruts back against them shamelessly, trying not to focus too much on the explosive mix of delight and adoration that had burst in his chest when Hannibal Chau had called him 'baby'.

"You want something?" Hannibal seems to enjoy talking, something that Newt has always found a bit too silly, like something out of a porno. But then again, most of his sexual partners have been men and women like him, nerds who were just looking to scratch an itch, and the ones who _had_ tried to talk it out during sex had just been repeating empty phrases that they thought would make the encounter more exciting. Hannibal might be a nerd (Newt doesn't judge) but the way he speaks, that voice of his...

"Yeah," Newt gasps, writhing against the mattress, desperate to turn over. He feels it dip behind him, Hannibal finally climbing into the bed. Newt can feel the depressions in the mattress where Hannibal has set his knees, one on either side of Newt, bracketing his hips. He whines, thumps his feet against the bed. "C'mon..."

Hannibal's fingers withdraw and Newt makes a high-pitched noise of disappointment. It is met by a light, open handed blow to his ass that stings like hell nonetheless. He goes very still for a moment, his face flaming. Did Hannibal just _spank_ him?

"Did you just _spank_ me?" he demands, deciding that it's a question which deserves to be asked aloud. He twists around, glaring over his shoulder as Hannibal takes him by the hips and pulls him back.

"Maybe," the gangster replies casually. The head of his cock presses against Newt. The gold ring is hot against his skin.

"Oh my god," Newt whimpers. "It's too big."

"You didn't think so when it was in your mouth," Hannibal points out.

"My mouth is stretchier," Newt protests. Hannibal laughs softly, squeezes his hips.

"You really want me to stop, doc?" he asks. He shifts so he's not pressing against Newt and Newt flushes with pleasure.

"You would?" he demands, swatting Hannibal's hands away and flipping onto his back. The only light in the room comes from the bathroom, and Hannibal is a huge, dark figure looming above him. Newt doesn't need to see his face to know the wounded expression on it, though.

"What kind of guy do you think I am?" Hannibal is teasing him, but there is a true note of offense in his voice, as though he cannot believe that Newt thinks so little of him. Newt chews his lip, obscurely delighted by the sudden power he's wielding here. Hannibal Chau actually sincerely cares about his, Newt's, opinion of him.

"You're a criminal," Newt points out. Hannibal shrugs, acknowledging that truth. Newt's grin grows wider and he wriggles his way up the bed, away from Hannibal. "You're a thug."

"That's not nice," Hannibal murmurs, crawling up the bed after Newt. Newt yelps, laughs as Hannibal grabs him by the ankles and pulls him back down.

"You're not nice," Newt protests and then Hannibal is on top of him, covering him, and his mouth claims Newt's. He's still hard; the ring digs into Newt's hip and he moans, spreading his legs so that Hannibal can situate himself between them. He breaks the kiss and nibbles his way down Newt's throat. The glasses are gone, who knows where, and Newt clutches the back of Hannibal's head, pressing him close.

"I changed my mind again," Newt gasps.

"I thought you might," Hannibal whispers. He's reaching down, hooking Newt's legs over his shoulders. Suddenly doubled in half, Newt whimpers, clutches Hannibal's shoulders. "You ready, baby?"

Newt moans, arches his back in response, and Hannibal is pressing in, guided by his hand, and there is a moment of pressure and then the head of his cock is inside and Newt screams. Hannibal shushes him, but his voice is unsteady, his breath coming in sharp gasps as he thrusts gently, pushing in an inch at a time, opening Newt up slowly until he is fully seated, his hips pressed flush against Newt's ass. The both of them stop for a moment, frozen and trembling. Newt feels as though he's splitting in half; he's never been so full in his life, and then Hannibal is moving, slow and easy, and Newt can't stop himself from screaming with every thrust.

"Shhh," Hannibal laughs, covering Newt's mouth with one massive hand. "Sounds like I'm murdering you." Newt strangles the next scream, nods, and the cupped hand shifts, caressing his lips.

"Sorry," he breathes, arching his back. Hannibal shifts, dragging Newt's legs down to wrap around his waist. The new angle doesn't let him go as deep, but Newt prefers it. He can move with Hannibal now, drawing him in, rolling his hips up to meet each thrust. "Feels good." 

"I know it does, baby," Hannibal purrs. His hands are everywhere, like he can't get enough of Newt, like he wants to feel every inch of Newt's body. Newt arches like a cat, shameless and eager as Hannibal's fingers skip down his ribs, grip his hips and pull him down harder. His own hands rake across Hannibal's broad shoulders, clawing marks that will be there for days.

Newt tries to keep his voice down, but the screams burst out of him again as Hannibal starts to move faster. "Damn it..." Hannibal is laughing against his shoulder, biting and sucking at his throat as the move together. Newt's digging his heels into the small of Hannibal's back, bucking and shuddering and screaming, and the head of the bed has started to bang insistently into the wall. It's cheap, tawdry hotel sex, except the hotel is super nice and someone is _definitely_ going to call the front desk again.

"More!" Newt gasps, slapping a hand against Hannibal's back, clawing and squirming. He is warm all over, full of a trembling energy that suffuses his entire body and threatens to spill over at any second. Every rough thrust sends sparks through him, igniting his nerves. He just needs a little bit more...

"Tryna kill me?" Hannibal snarls against his neck, but he moves faster, harder, and his broad hand shifts down between them. Thick fingers wrap around Newt's cock and he yelps, kicks his legs out straight.

" _YES_!" and the word turns into a rising shriek as Hannibal strokes him in time with the motion of his hips. Newt comes shamelessly, grinding his head down against the pillows, clenching so tight around Hannibal that it almost hurts him. Hannibal swears, thrusts raggedly, his arm wrapping around Newt's hips to hold him still.

"Shhhh," he breathes. His forehead presses against Newt's, his eyes are screwed shut. Newt watches him, fascinated and dazed from his own orgasm. "Shhhh... fuck..." Hannibal goes stiff for a moment, the air catching in his throat. Shudders ripple down his back. His hips still. Newt bites his lower lip, squirms in protest as Hannibal pulls out and rolls over onto his back. He is wet between the legs, battered and tired and satiated, and the warm afterglow of good sex has almost lulled him to sleep when the mattress dips and Hannibal's weight disappears from the bed.

Newt sits up straight, blinking owlishly. There is an ache deep inside him, and a skittering fear circling his brain. "Where are you going?" he demands. Hannibal, halfway across the room, looks back at him.

"To clean up," he growls. "You mind? That okay with you, princess?"

Newt narrows his eyes. "Don't be a shit," he says. A few hours ago, he would have swallowed his tongue before calling Hannibal Chau a shit. But much like the post-Otachi incident in which he'd maybe possibly uttered the phrase 'one-eyed bitch', his adrenaline is running high and Hannibal has something that he wants.

"Excuse me?" Hannibal turns to face him again, folding his arms and staring Newt down with that one super creepy eye. Even soft, his dick is huge. Newt growls, slips out of bed. He limps a little. A brilliant smile blossoms on Hannibal's face.

"You heard me," Newt mutters, shoving past the big gangster. The bathroom is too bright and unforgiving; the bruises on his neck look lurid and trashy. "You just better stay the night."

He leans over, starts the shower. It's been a long, weird night, and he definitely needs to sluice some of it off of him. Hannibal follows him in, crowds up behind him. His big hands stroke down Newt's back, thumbs teasing his spine. He arches into the touch, pleased by the humanity of it.

"You bet, baby," Hannibal purrs. "You're all mine now."

*

They stay in Russia another two nights. Hannibal mostly leaves Newt in the hotel to watch weird television shows by himself. He was only along to impress upon their Russian hosts that Hannibal is such a big, important guy that he has the scientist who saved the world on his payroll. Newt gets it, but it still kinda stings. He wants to be important again. He wants to be a rockstar.

He feels like one at night.

As soon as they're alone, they're all over each other. It's nothing that Newt ever expected, nothing that he even wanted, but the more it happens, the more he needs it. Hannibal is incredible, big and rough and aggressive while they're fucking, tender and solicitous afterwards. He holds Newt against his side, asks him in a rough voice if he's all right, if anything hurts.

Newt's nails tattoo marks of ownership across Hannibal's shoulders. He likes to stare at them when they shower together. They're reassuring, a confirmation that this is real.

He looks at the bruises on his throat and shoulders the same way. They are badges, and as long as he wears them, he is safe from his own mind.

*

He moves his things into Hannibal's suite when they return to Hong Kong. Hannibal accepts it with a smile, even helps Newt carry his bags.

"You been sleeping better, baby?" he asks, sprawled in an overstuffed armchair, smoking a cigar as Newt puts his things away.

"Much, thanks." Newt dumps his socks and underwear into a drawer, shoves some undershirts in with them. He suspects they'll all be gone within the week, replaced by expensive, tailored clothes delivered by Moses. It's actually kind of a nice thought.

"That bitch still in your head?" Hannibal asks too casually, and Newt wants to tell him no because he doesn't want to talk about it, but that's not fair. After everything Hannibal has done for him, continues to do for him, that's just not fair.

"Sometimes," he says, shrugging. "Less, though."

The day after they'd gotten back, he'd had to leave the lab almost as soon as he got there. The organs in their jars had started to twitch and writhe and build kaiju around themselves, the way the eye in Russia had done. Seeing Hardship reconstruct itself was bad enough; an entire lab full of intersecting ghost kaiju was too much, not nearly as awesome or funny as he’d imagined. Especially with the membrane of her wing hanging on the wall, recreating her possessive glare.

He still sees flickers of them, but only occasionally, and only out of the corner of his eye.

"You wanna talk about it?" The earthy scent of the cigar fills the room. Newt abandons his unpacking, settles into Hannibal's lap like he belongs there. Weirdly, wonderfully, he does.

"Nope," he says, rubbing his face against the plush, expensive fabric of Hannibal's jacket.

"Suit yourself," Hannibal says, but Newt knows that what he means is, _Whenever you're ready_. And that's good. It's perfect.

It's exactly what Newt needs to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> Just for the edification of the curious, there will definitely be a sequel to this fic that will include more Hermann and Vanessa, more creepy kaiju dreams, and Newt being repeatedly shoved outside his comfort zone. So I hope you'll tune in for that one, as well.


End file.
